


fade like something bright and burning.

by asdfghjkla



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-29
Updated: 2011-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-25 01:45:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asdfghjkla/pseuds/asdfghjkla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are meant for things grand and glorious, but what a fool you were, to think you could hold fire in your hands without it dying out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fade like something bright and burning.

**Author's Note:**

> _a million years it's been, since the search began  
>  still can't find it, still can't find it  
> the fuel is nearly spent, check the maps again  
> can't let go of it, can't let go of it  
> _   
>  [ there's so much energy in us - cloud cult ]  
> 

**the open.**

She sits on a throne, wrapped in ribbons and silk, like something delicate, and she hates every second of it.

The man that stands beside her considers himself her advisor, her teacher, her aid. He tells her that she is the greatest. She thinks, I know. He tells her that she must stand regent above all. She thinks, Of course. He tells her that the this entire world is her kingdom. She thinks, That is not enough.

The only thing she likes about the throne is the way it stands higher than anything else in the room, golden and gilded, forcing everyone to look up and see their place. She just doesn't like to sit in, hates the feel of it pressed against her spine, reminding her that she is still, unmoving, an easy target.

An empress should not be this weak.

Just because she is precious does not mean she is fragile. How is she expected to rule if they keep her trapped in this gaudy underwater palace like something prized and doll-eyed? If she is meant for greatness, then she should be able to chase it, grasp it in her hands, instead of sitting here waiting. She should be outside, above, where she is able to feel the wind at her back, taste the stars, see the look of fear in the eyes of her subjects.

She is seven sweeps old and is growing impatient.

"Nothing last forever," he says, his voice grave, like an avalanche. "All things must come to an end."

She hears this. She thinks. She considers.

"All things but me."

When she reach out, she aims for the throat. His skin feels like paper, and rips just as easily.

**the discovery.**

They set him before her like a prize, and rightfully so. She nearly sings. Victory has never tasted so sweet.

She digs her nails into his skin, forcing him to look up. There is nothing soft about her hands, now. They are long and lithe and lethal, and much more suitable to what she is. (Not what she has become, for that is something she has always known.)

"Do you know who I am?" she asks, even though of course he does, how could he possibly not. She just wants to see him bristle and glare. Fire is always brightest right before the deluge. She wants to feel him burn before she wears him to cinders.

He seethes, as expected, and she twirls and laughs. Even the renegades fall prey to her wills and wishes. He is hers, now, as is everything.

"We are going to do great things together," she tells him.

Someone once told her that she ought not to play so roughly. But who were they to tell her - the Princess, the Empress, the Condesce - what to do? She is royal. She is supreme. All must bow down and quiver in her wake. It is the new toys that are the most shiny, and the new toys are the ones that are the most fun to break.

When they drag him away, it is like the first few drops of cold, bitter rain.

She wonders if it burns as acid does.

**(all that remains)**

The spaceship is dark in places, but there is a well-worn path leading to all that she visits. She needs not go anywhere else.

Dust begins to gather in the absence of breath.

She curls up against him, relishing the way his hair feels. It was soft, once, but now it has gone brittle beneath her fingers, matted with blood and sweet and exertion. She likes the tangles, likes the way it pricks her skin. It reminds her of a plant she saw once, on a planet she destroyed. It had looked so pretty and perfect and fragile, growing from the ruins, but when she held it in her hand, it drew blood.

After she set fire to that galaxy she had kissed him in a drunken haze of perfume.

"We," she says, dragging a nail along his cheek, leaving marks that gleam ghost white, "are the very last."

Of our kind. In the galaxy. In all of the universe. Among all the stars. Even when they fade, we will still be here, shining, together.

(It's not true and she knows this, but it's nice to pretend.)

**the distance.**

It's been a very long time since there's been anything at all.

She has dreams of blood and fire, still, and of building cities from the bones of the innocent. Oh, she would wear their eyes like precious jewels, drink their blood as wine. It was all so glorious, befitting a queen. She would dance and dance and dance and the ash would fill her lungs sweet as sugar. Then she would turn to him and he would join her, helpless in the orbit of her spin.

She tells him things she's never told anyone. Some of them are lies.

He says nothing, he never does. He doesn't even look her in the eye. (Although she knows he watches. She can feel it on her skin, thicker than blood, with a touch like the stars.)

He has the most fascinating eyes. She thinks that once she's made the universe her kingdom, she might just steal them, the jewels for her tiara. Nothing else would gleam quite as bright.

**the close.**

"No," she whispers, and once she says that it's like there's no holding back. Words come rushing out, a cascade of it - _no no no no no no no no no_ \- and oh, so this is the feeling of the fall.

How weak.

She grabs him by the throat but is careful - and how strange it feels, to hold something without the intention of breaking it - and tells him this: "You are not allowed to die. You are _mine_."

She is immortal. She is the sun. She is bright and burning. Nothing of hers should end. She is the Condesce, the Constant, the - _oh god no don't close your eyes you weak, weak being don't go don't go I'll chain you so you can't leave I'll rip your throat out I'll hold your heart between my wicked hands and strangle it until it gasps back into life don't leave me don't leave me I love you so don't go don't -_

He laughs, and it sounds nothing like wind or winter bells. It's the defiant battlecry of every fool who thought they could beat her, bring her down, she, the Empress, and it is the sound that followed like an echo when she curled her fingers between their bones and snapped their hope, dreams, and life in a single motion, snap-snicker-snap.

It's so beautiful it makes her sick.

When she scratches out his smile, she swears she will never wash her hands. She kisses her bloodstained fingertips, lightly, softly, loving, for the first time, for the last time. It tastes like ash and smoke and honey. Like fire. Like ruin.

She does not think of this as the end, only as the part of the circle where the mouth meets its own tail, only to begin devouring. And so it goes. Never stop. There will be other engines, other sources of fuel.

There's enough energy in his ghost left to carry her to their destination, but only just.


End file.
